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Wonderfully intriguing, Lawrence! I am going to let this sit for awhile. Stephen V ________________________________ From: Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]> To: [log in to unmask] Sent: Thu, February 9, 2012 5:12:11 AM Subject: Elidius on his island When I had a door with a lock, the wind was often there, trying the mechanism, as it would go round back, pushing at walls in that persistent manner that it has; like a soldier; but what I remember is the insinuation of violent air, trying to make open what I had closed. Doors attract gusts as cats bring disasters. These things are invisible; but one hears them, the noise of their dressing or changing clothes before they go to night form; such noises, not unlike humanity; but surely dead or damned in some other way inhuman. And hands touch me in the middle of the night. Almost every afternoon as daylight falls, they climb the hill from the sea and turn about my dwelling, following now the western side along its great length. I watch them through it, keeping myself closed in, not braving to exchange vision with these lithe figures. Not that I would see insubstantiality. They are not there. They look energetic. One does wonder. It is, I assume, the dead. Some days they do not come. Or I’m not there. Or else I am not looking through the wall. I hadn’t known I could until I saw. They seem to coincide with us. We live. They have their own time and differing purpose. Which is the wind and which truly spirit? This gate leans out to me if I approach and then hangs limp as I take hold of it, swinging loose upon a squeaky hinge, soundless that moment before I reached and touched it as if some other being calmed its voice in the man-made mechanism; and that gesture is indicative. I must find its meaning. I was guest in a palace far from here. I had leave to wander the large building: room led to room, steps, passages: and, as I went, each door opened for me, as one saying “Please enter” though followers thought it suspicious. I joy in welcome.